


A Little Night Music

by Wishme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bar, Karaoke, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:48:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/Wishme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sam turn to pick what they do for the evening: Karaoke</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Night Music

Dean is going to kill Sam.

 

It’s one thing to sing along with the tapes or the radio in the car or the vinyl in the living room in the Bunker. Karaoke is another beast entirely.

 

Dean’s pretty antisocial, though he’s charming when he wants or needs to be. Usually when there’s a victim to question or a pretty body at the bar to pick up, but he doesn’t see the use in people in general. It’s always been him and Sam, and John and Bobby too. And now Cas, but Cas is different in ways Dean doesn’t let himself think about.

 

But it’s Sam’s turn to pick what they’re doing tonight and Dean had promised he’d do whatever Sam wanted. He’d vetoed movie night (“We always do that, Dean. Let’s have some fun. Like regular people.” ) and dragged a disgruntled Dean and perplexed Cas to the nearest karaoke joint.

 

Some poor bastard is working his way through the last 3 minutes of  “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” when they walk in. The audience cheers him on through the endless last chorus and the hunters sidle up to the bar. Sam orders two beers and a whiskey, neat. He knows it’ll take at least one drink for Dean to stop being such a dick about the venue. Sam just wants to have some fun that doesn’t involve blood and guts, dick angels, or crusty old men in dive bars. And, if he’s honest, he’s hoping a change of scenery will get the two idiots he’s with to get over whatever shit is making the air between them crack. He’s tired of getting hit in their emotional backlash, Dean picking fights over nothing, Castiel retreating behind his stony façade that no one buys any longer. But he’s not worrying about that tonight. Tonight is for letting loose.

 

It takes a few more rounds of coaxing Castiel into finishing his beers instead of sipping (and then switching him to whiskey) to convince the other idiots to take a look at the catalog and pick out songs. Sam goes first, leaving them to bicker about songs. Dean has something to say about every song on the list and Cas is eyerolling so hard it has to hurt.

 

The audience is awesome. Sam belts out the chorus to “Living on a Prayer” and they’re right there with him, fists in the air. This is what Sam likes about karaoke—getting out of yourself, being a part of a group bound together by even fleeting enthusiasm. Everyone here is buoyant, optimistic. He needs more of that in his life. Hell, they all do.

 

As the music ends, he bows with a flourish to the cheers of the crowd. Dean welcomes him back to their table with a “Bon Jovi? Really?” and a new beer. Sam just grins and watches the next few patrons stutter out their songs. One guy is almost too drunk to stand, which only makes his choice of “Stand By Your Man” that much more hilarious. And then it’s Dean’s turn.

 

Dean saunters up to the mic and his look turns to a smolder as the music starts. He _owns_ “Rebel Yell”, licking his lips at the pretty young things in the front row, moving his hips in time to the music, growling out the lyrics to the whole bar. He’s the consummate performer: being whatever his audience wants, when they want it. After his song ends, there are tens of girls who grab his sleeve and try to entice him back to their table for a drink. He smirks and says “I gotta check on my friends” and winks, and makes his way back to his table. Sam high fives him and Cas smiles. Dean is buzzed enough not to look too deeply into either reaction, never mind that when he ground out the chorus “c _ries more, more, **more**_ ,” his eyes always darted back to Castiel. It’s not a thing they talk about; its not a thing he thinks about. He knocks back the rest of his whiskey and motions to the waitress for another round.

 

 

Eventually, Castiel gets up to sing. Sam makes him leave the trench choat behind, so he’s up there in dark denim and soft flannel, hair flashing halos in the crap lighting. Dean’s just drunk, that’s why his breath catches in his chest each time he sees that glow around his friend’s head, the eyes shooting back to him for encouragement. He smiles at the angel and sits back to enjoy the show. It should be interesting.

 

The music starts up and it quickly becomes painfully apparent that something has gone wrong. Castiel looks panicked and unsure and it’s not a tune Dean recognizes, which means it _certainly_ isn’t a tune Cas knows, and it’s most definitely not the “Space Oddity” he’d requested. The karaoke operator punches a few buttons and shrugs his shoulders, there’s nothing he can do—the machine is just being weird. Not sure what to do, Castiel starts singing anyway, a bit off key and clearly uncomfortable, no idea about the melody. Luckily, this crowd is a good one and quickly joins in.

 

“ _I took my troubles down to Madame Rue_  
 _You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth_  
 _She's got a pad down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine_  
 _Sellin' little bottles of Love Potion Number Nine”_

 

With the crowd’s support and guidance, Castiel makes it through to some fantastic cheering at the end. He’s gorgeous and shy in a way that’s endearing, which means everyone wants to talk to him once he steps off the stage. People clasp his shoulder and lean in close, one girl in particular hangs off his arm as he starts to peel away to join Sam and Dean at their table. Dean gets up and walks over to them, joining the group discussing the merits of late-50s /early 60’s pop. He doesn’t question his motive when he slips his arm around Cas’s waist, pulling him flush against his side, angling his head in a proprietary fashion. He meets the eyes of the girl still stubbornly clinging to Cas’s arm until she gets the message and melts into the crowd.

 

Dean steers Cas back to the table, hand on the small of his back and they sit on the same side of the table, Dean touching Cas every so often, passing him a beer, a napkin, or in passing with an overzealous gesture. Their legs are pressed together on the seat, thigh to ankle and the thrill this sends through Dean remains unquestioned. All of them go up a few more times.  It’s uneventful and too soon  last call is called and they all close it with a rousing round of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” 

 

Dean’s flying on his whiskeys and soda, shared with Cas, and they’re swept away with  the music, screaming “ _scaramouche, scaramouche, CAN YOU DO THE FANDANGO_ ” right into each others’ faces, laughing so hard they have to hold their sides. Sam is shaking in silent laughter. Dean and Cas croon the last line, “ _Nothing really matters, anyone can see. Nothing really matters, nothing really matters…to me.”_ which is an abject lie and they all know it. They’re looking at each other, Dean’s hand cupping Cas’s face,  as the last notes peter out, the room filling with the laughter and chatter of the other patrons. Dean touches his tongue to his teeth, about to say something, before he swoops in and presses his lips against Cas’s. They part gently, soft pressure, searching. And then Cas presses back, clacking their teeth together in his enthusiasm, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders.  Dean’s forgotten how to breathe, his pulse hammering under his skin, every exhale sounding “ _Cas._ ” He leans back and traces Cas’s lips with his tongue, dipping down to nip at the edges of his jaw, drawing sharp moans from Cas before surging back into his mouth, lips slotted against each other, teasing, licking into the warm, secret spaces.

 

Sam coughs and they hurriedly break apart.  He smiles at them, genuinely sorry for the interruption “We gotta go guys, they’ve turned the lights on.”

 

And they have. The bar is quickly emptying out into the parking lot, cabs being hailed, last minute judgments on driver reliability being made. Sam shoves them into the back seat of the Impala, having palmed the keys from Dean at some point, determinedly belting out the AC/DC in the tapedeck to drown out the sounds behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's not talk about how long I spent analyzing which songs I wanted the boys to sing and how put out I am that I couldn't work "Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon into this. it was very close. 
> 
> The title might make me giggle a little too much . I REGRET NOTHING.


End file.
